The Other Side of Sorrow (6 page)

Great
, I thought.
That'll make it tougher.
‘I really need to get hold of them,' I said. ‘It's not about your protest in any way. I—'

She touched me again and I had the same reaction. ‘I understand,' she said. ‘Look, they'll be back. Give me your phone number and I'll do what I can to help you. That's on one condition.'

I was fishing for a card before she finished. ‘Good. What's that?'

‘That you tell me about this long story of yours sometime.' She took the card. ‘Thanks. I have to go.'

She moved back towards the tent and I walked along the bank of the creek looking for an easier place to cross. I found it less than a hundred metres away where the creek entered a concrete channel crossed by a narrow bridge. Upstream from that it disappeared into a pipe. I stood on the bridge looking back. The creek was exposed for not much more than two hundred metres. The mangroves seemed to be just clinging on against the pollution and the development. The whole thing looked like an oversight, as if such a feeble watercourse should have been covered long ago and the patch of marshland where it ended drained. I wondered what the rationale for protecting it was. It wasn't an attractive feature, but in a way I could see why it was worth preserving whether or not animal or vegetable species were threatened. With the whole of the landscape being restructured, why not say hands off this little bit?

My car was standing where I'd left it and there was no one around. The machines that would cover the creek and build the road had withdrawn to other parts of the site. It looked as if this represented no more than a stay in the proceedings, but you never know, we've still got Victoria Street and Fraser Island.

The rain started again as I drove home and the going was slow. I debated whether to call Cyn and tell her what I'd learned but I decided against. None of it was comforting and perhaps if I found out a bit more I could put a better complexion on things. I realised I was hoping for the same thing for myself. I wasn't too displeased with my progress so far—to identify an unknown person and establish a connection that could lead to making contact wasn't such a bad day's work. It was certainly worth a drink or two and I was looking forward to it. The fact that I'd be having the drink alone made me think briefly of Annette and then, for somewhat longer, of Tess Hewitt.

Back when Bob Hawke was ruling the roost, there was a proposal that all Australians should be issued with an identity card to be called the Australia Card. The idea was that the card would make it easier for the authorities to catch up with tax cheats, welfare frauds and other fiddlers with the system. The outcry against it came from the left and the right and the proposal was scuttled. I was against it instinctively as a sort of crypto-anarchist and a reader of George Orwell. Big Brother didn't need any more of a leg-up. Civil libertarians spelled out how it would've violated privacy in the affairs of the citizens from sexual preference to political affiliation and back again. As it turned out, they were right and they were wrong. These days, if you know how, you can find out just about anything about anybody if you can tap into the vast computerised data banks held by government agencies, financial and educational institutions and the free-wheeling marketplace.

I drove to my office in Darlinghurst, ignored the mail and the faxes, and made a series of phone calls. Pressing all the right buttons is costly, but if you've got a name and a birthdate, not to mention extra information like a mother's maiden name, it's astonishing what's on record and how easily freelance hackers can access, assemble and market it. Everyone in my business is a subscriber to one or more of these services. You pay off in lots of different ways—depositing in TAB accounts, permitting items to be debited to your account in various stores and outlets, providing services free, doing favours. It's dirty, but it's essential to survival in the modern inquirer business.

When I'd finished I tidied up the paperwork, made a few calls to keep other cases ticking over and declared my unavailability to two would-be clients I'd normally have gobbled up. I spread Cyn's cheque out on the desk and debated whether to deposit it. What kind of a bastard would take money from a dying woman to locate and protect his own daughter? On the other hand, what professional would devote time and resources to chasing a fantasy? So far, the pursuit of Damien Talbot and Meg (aka Margaret? Megan?) French had cost time and petrol, lost me some business and the bills from the hackers would come in. Cyn's cheque would cover it but there wouldn't be a lot over.

It was after five and the rain was washing the windows—the only way they ever got washed. I'd bought a bottle of Teacher's on the way in. I opened it, poured a good measure into a paper cup and put my feet on the desk. The ankle I'd jarred making my famous jump twinged and I grimaced as I swallowed some medicinal Scotch. The most I'd ever cleared in the broad jump at school was a bit over sixteen feet which placed me third in the Sydney inter-school athletic carnival. That recollection brought back a memory of who'd won it—a pale, orange-haired, stocky kid named ‘Redda' Phillips from Fort Street High. He'd also won the hop-step-and-jump, the high jump and the two sprints. It was a privilege to be beaten by him. I had another drink and wondered if kids still called redheads ‘Redda' or ‘Bluey'. Somehow I doubted it.

I knew what I was doing—putting off calling Cyn. I folded the cheque and put it into my wallet. Indecisive. That wasn't me. I picked up the phone, dialled and got her answering machine. I left a message that I was making progress but had nothing solid yet. The easy way out. I took the bottle home with me.

At 9.30 the next morning I answered the phone to a solicitor named Hargreaves who told me that unless I presented at his office by 11 o'clock that morning for a conference with representatives of Millennium Security I could expect extremely unpleasant legal proceedings. Assault was mentioned, along with trespass and damage to property. I couldn't afford to get involved in anything like that so I agreed.

The office was in Macquarie Street in a section of the city that wasn't being torn down. I wore a suit. Mr Hargreaves wore a suit. So did Mr Hargreaves's female secretary and Smith from Millennium. The other person present wore the Millennium Security guard uniform. He wasn't the one who'd fallen in the puddle. This guy was bigger and well-balanced, looked harder to trip.

‘Mr Hardy,' Smith said. ‘I think you remember me. This is Mr Kamenka. Thank you for coming. A few minutes of your time could save a lot of wasted time for all of us.'

‘Time is money,' I said.

‘Indeed it is.' Hargreaves gestured for us all to sit down.

Smith opened the slimline leather satchel he was carrying and extracted a manilla folder which he placed on the solicitor's teak desk.

‘This is a complete rundown of all the steps that have been taken to protect the Homebush Bay environment,' he said. ‘It includes details of detoxification, the rehabilitation of wetlands, the restitution of original watercourses, the isolation of noxious wastes, the retention of existing trees and the re-planting of appropriate species, the installation of solar-powered heating and lighting systems and …'

‘Fascinating reading I'm sure,' I interrupted. ‘But what's it got to do with me?'

‘Yesterday you made an enquiry at the site, following which you assaulted a member of our staff and later appeared to make common cause with the picketers at Tadpole Creek.'

I looked at Kamenka. ‘It wasn't much of an assault. More of a nudge.'

‘Certainly actionable if we chose to make it so.'

‘Ah, a threat.'

‘No. Just a piece of information to go along with this.' He tapped the folder. ‘Read it, Mr Hardy. I don't know what ratbag organisation you're working for, but frustrating the work at the site is ill-advised and pointless.'

‘You call that whole thing the site, do you? Isn't it a whole lot of sites?'

Smith was struggling to keep his patience. ‘We're trying to treat you decently. Don't make it any harder.'

‘What puzzles me is why you're so worried and why you're taking this trouble. I don't give a stuff about Tadpole Creek. I don't care about the Olympics either, although if you could give me some tickets to the boxing I might be interested. Can Mr Kamenka speak, by the way? Or does he just do isometrics inside his uniform?'

Smith sighed and Hargreaves looked exasperated. I didn't blame him. I was exasperated too. The secretary entered with coffee and we all watched her pour it.

I sipped the coffee. Too strong, bitter.

Smith's manners were his strong point. He backed down a little, talked about some of the hassles he had with security and implied that he was under some pressure to keep the lid on all difficult situations. His politeness seemed genuine and made me feel better about him. I decided to give a little.

‘I'm working on a missing persons case. That's all I can tell you and more than I need to tell you. There's nothing more to it than that.'

‘I'd like to believe you.'

I put the undrunk coffee on the desk. ‘You can.'

‘If that's the case I might have a proposition for you.'

‘I enter into contracts with clients, Mr Smith. Just like you. I don't deal in propositions.'

Smith considered this carefully before nodding. ‘I see. Well, just let me lay this out for you and get your reaction.'

Pointedly, I checked my watch.

‘This won't take long,' he said. He explained that the Tadpole Creek protest was a puzzle to the Olympic organising authorities and particularly to Millennium Security. He described the creek as ‘a puddle' of no environmental value, although he admitted that it was an oversight that it hadn't been included in the original environmentally sensitive plan.

‘I won't pretend this has been well-handled,' he said. ‘When they saw that they'd slipped it up they tried to tidy things away sharpish. Crudely. This protest surfaced and we're in the spot we're in now. Somehow they got some mad judge to issue an injunction. It's crazy.'

‘Look, I'm not really interested. I …'

‘There's someone behind it,' Smith continued. ‘Someone with money. That protest is being funded from somewhere. Food, equipment, vehicles, legal fees. Someone's backing the whole thing and we don't know who or why.'

I shrugged. ‘You must have the resources to find out.'

‘The way to find out is to get someone inside the protest. It seems you made a big hit with them.' He opened his satchel and took out a notebook. ‘I'm told you had a long conversation with the sister of one of the leaders. That's Tess Hewitt, sister of Ramsay. This is after you jumped the creek.'

For my own reasons, I was interested now. ‘Who's the other leader?'

Smith didn't need to consult his notes. ‘Damien Talbot. He's a sort of environmental terrorist—the kind who drives spikes into logging trees. That kind of thing. He's also got convictions for drug offences and criminal assault.'

Just for a minute I was tempted. I'd heard of Millennium. They were international, of course, wielded influence and paid top money. But I smelt several rats. The theory that I was well-placed to infiltrate the protesters was only half-convincing at best. Millennium should've been able to come up with better strategies that that. Then there was Tess Hewitt and the warmth I'd felt from her. Not to be discounted. Also, I'd begun to focus in on the Meg French matter with all its emotional complications and I work best when I'm single-minded. Double-minded maybe. Triple-minded, never.

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I've got something serious in hand and the protest is very peripheral to it. If that. I'm not interested.'

‘If it's a question of money?'

‘No.'

Smith sighed and put his notebook away. ‘Then all I can do is advise you to do as you say—leave those idiots to their fate.'

I had to admire Hargreaves and Kamenka. Neither had said a word. Now both stood in mute and effective demonstration that the meeting was over. I stayed where I was.

‘A threat of legal action brought me here, Mr Smith.'

Smith had half-left his seat. Now he stood and moved towards the door. ‘Hardly a threat and I think we've resolved the issue.'

‘I like a quiet life, too,' I said.

‘Do you? I doubt it.'

And that was that. On consideration, Smith impressed me as an honest functionary. Maybe there
was
a mystery about the backer of the protest. Maybe I could ask Tess Hewitt about it.

The information began to come in soon after I reached my office. Damien Talbot was twenty-six years of age. Born in Petersham, he had suffered a childhood accident that had left his right leg slightly shorter than his left. He wore a built-up boot but walked with a limp. He was 185 centimetres and 75 kilos with fair hair, blue eyes and pierced ears. He had attended state schools in inner Sydney and done one year of an acting course at NIDA then dropped out. Some time later he'd enrolled in a TAFE Environmental Studies course which he'd pursued for two years without completing the required written work. Addresses in Ultimo, Chippendale, Newtown, Marrickville and of course Homebush. He had two convictions for possession of marijuana and one for trafficking in cocaine. He'd served three years on that count, concurrent with a two-year sentence for assault occasioning bodily harm. That was all to do with drugs too.

His driver's licence had expired a year ago and, as I'd already learned, he was being proceeded against for failure to pay parking fines and for driving an unroadworthy vehicle. He had drawn unemployment benefits periodically but was not currently doing so. I obtained an address for his surviving parent, his mother, in Petersham and details of three bank accounts, all overdrawn. It was difficult to find much on the credit side of Damien's ledger.